


What I Used to Be, I'm Not Anymore

by second_skin



Series: Crossroads (Mystrade; Greg Comes Out) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of John's Jumper, Coming Out, Fluff, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Understands, Romance, Scones Will Make Things Better, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Lestrade is with Mycroft now. Why doesn't anyone see that the whole damn world looks different--and better?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Used to Be, I'm Not Anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



> _Written in 2011 for fengirl88, based on one of her favorite songs,[Crossroads](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1yTrF4OYwU)._

 

Nothing and everything had changed.

He put on the same shirt, trousers, and shoes he'd worn dozens of times before. Combed his hair the same way. Brushed his teeth. Picked up a coffee on the way in to the Yard and began the day. So many leads to process and assignments to make. They just had to keep moving ahead as fast as possible. Sherlock and John were on the mend and bound to be shoving their noses into every crack and crevice of the case soon enough too. _Thank God._

He took the lift directly to Personnel. Submitted his change of address form to Emma and stood there for a minute, thinking she'd ask what was up. But she didn't even glance away from her computer screen. "Yeah, thanks, Greg. We'll get it filed and in the system as soon as we can--should be about a week."

By noon, the fact that Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock--the whole lot of them--seemed not to have noticed any change made him wonder about their alleged skills of observation. Good that it wasn't something everyone noticed, he supposed.

But it also felt like he was living inside a massive joke or riddle. _How is this man who looks to be the same bloke you've known for years--how is he completely different?_ Except that he's not different--he's what he's always been, always felt was right, but now . . . Christ, how did no one see that all the molecules in his body were now sorted and settled into their proper places for the first time?

He wanted _someone_ to notice, but he'd be damned if he was going to spill his guts about his personal life to anyone on his team. Hadn't done it before, and wasn't going to start now.

 

* * * * *

 

It was all going to be okay she'd said finally, after the hours of anguish and silence and tears. Molly had always known he wasn't really there with her. Each kiss and caress was because he knew she needed it, not because he longed to touch her. She told herself he was in love with the job, just like Sherlock, and there just wasn't enough space left for her. But she knew that was wrong--knew his heart was plenty big enough.

She wouldn't let him touch her when they finally parted, and that left a wound in his chest that would take months to close and years to really heal. But she'd said she wanted him to be happy--was glad there was someone who might fill the space he had never let her enter.

 

* * * * *

 

The fact that the person filling his heart turned out to be Sherlock's brother proved that God does have a sense of humor. An absurd, dark sense of humor, in fact. But there it was. Lestrade was now going home every night to that buttoned-up, bespoke, keep-calm-when-the-whole-bloody-world-feels-like-it's-exploding servant of Her Majesty. And he couldn't fucking believe it.

Now they just had to go about the business of figuring out how to make this new thing together. Figure out what it was and who they were together.

 

* * * * *

 

After work, Lestrade decided he'd best return some of the most precious books and papers his team had confiscated from Baker Street--possible clues in the neo-Nazi investigation. Gotta get them back in their proper places. Sherlock was probably fully conscious already and the bastard could surely smell that his things had been tampered with. He piled the boxes into a cab when the work day was over, and hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind him barging in.

Gazing out the window of the cab, Lestrade smiled when he saw two men--boys really--couldn't be more than twenty or so--holding hands as they waited to cross the street. One was tall and fair, with Harry Potter glasses and a blue hoody and jeans--looked to be blushing--a bit awkward and shy. But the other was clearly a bolder character and intent on snogging the life right out of his boyfriend. Long, curly dark hair, denim jacket over a rainbow t-shirt, bright orange trainers. Jesus, they looked so happy--and so young--so many years ahead.

Lestrade wondered if he and Mycroft would ever look that natural, that carefree walking down the street together. Wondered how long it would take until he felt comfortable enough to kiss Mycroft in public like that--or even hold his hand.

It'd be better, wouldn't it, if he could try it all on and practice a bit. Shouldn't there be some shop in Chelsea where you could try different shades and styles of being gay to see what fit? He chuckled at the thought of it. "I've recently come out, Miss," he'd say to the bored little shopgirl, "and I need to try on a few things. No, no, I don't think I can handle that Graham Norton attitude. Do have something in a nice tweedy Stephen Fry?"

  
* * * * *

 

"Oh, Greg! So very lovely to see you! Come in, come in, dear. I'm just making up some treats for the boys. Tomorrow is visiting day, you know!" She held both of his hands in hers and squeezed tight, beaming at him with tired, red-rimmed eyes.

"Yeah, that's right, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure they'll be over the moon to get a taste of your scones in hospital. Listen, I've got a few boxes that need to be taken up to 221B. You don't mind, do you? Got my own key--but wanted to check with you . . ."

"March right on up. Sherlock's brother--do you know him? He's there now gathering a few things Sherlock asked for when he woke up. I'm sure he won't mind if you join him."

Lestrade's heart raced and he couldn't stop grinning as he took the stairs two at a time and then pounded on the door. "Open up! Police!"

Mycroft opened the door, pulled Lestrade inside, and kissed him. The press of Mycroft's palm against Lestrade's chest was enough to make him forget the wound he'd been unbandaging and worrying all day. The feel of Mycroft's lips and the tilt of his head just so, breath warming Lestrade's chin and cheeks, tongue finding and mercilessly teasing the Inspector's tongue then pulling away to find an earlobe, a stubbled jawline . . . And oh yes, the familiar, intoxicating little sigh when Lestrade's hand slipped below Mycroft's waist and around his bum to pull him closer.

Everything in those few seconds made Lestrade realize that all the steps he'd taken in his life had led right here. This was where he was supposed to be. No, not in Sherlock's chaotic, possibly toxic sitting room--but in Mycroft's arms. Right here.

 

* * * * *

Having released a bit of tension and disposed of the evidence ( _Well, there seemed to be no tissues to be found, and surely John wasn't going to miss that old striped jumper anyway._ ), Lestrade and Mycroft went about the business of unloading and arranging all the items from the boxes Lestrade had brought from the Yard. When they were finished, Lestrade gave Mycroft a kiss on the cheek and a wink. "Time to get home? You're cooking something tonight, right?"

"Hmmm. I don't like to encourage these outlandish domestic expectations, Greg." Mycroft pretended to frown. "But I did ask Anthea to stop at the shops earlier, so we'll have fresh pasta and some prawns--and a surprise for dessert, of course." Mycroft did his best to growl seductively--but it came out more like a squeak. Neither man could stop giggling as they locked up and headed down the stairs.

Walking towards the long black car, Lestrade slipped his hand into Mycroft's and breathed in the chilly, early spring air. It felt like a tonic for his body and his soul.

Mrs. Hudson rushed up behind them. "Oh wait, wait! You must take a few scones too, Greg. And you as well, Mycroft. Keep them wrapped up like this and they'll be fine and fresh for breakfast."

She gave Greg a sly wink, and then looked sternly at Mycroft, who had received the brown paper bag of scones with a courtly bow and smile. "I thought he looked uncommonly happy when he came to the door today. Well done, Mycroft. Try to keep him that way, eh?"

Mycroft bowed again, looked at Lestrade, and replied quietly. "That is precisely my intention, Mrs. Hudson. Precisely."

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Can you remember who I was?_  
>  Can you still feel it?  
> Can you find my pain--can you heal it?  
> Then lay your hands upon me now,  
> And cast this darkness from my soul.  
> You alone can light my way;  
> You alone can make me whole  
> Once again. . .  
> There's no need for turning back,  
> 'Cause all roads lead to where we stand.  
> And I believe we'll walk them all,  
> No matter what we may have planned.  
>  _\--Don McLean, "Crossroads"_


End file.
